


It Starts The Same

by Ughilovejohnlock



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Feelings, Fluff and Angst, Guilt, Hurt Sherlock Holmes, M/M, Mind Palace, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Nice Sherlock, POV Alternating, PTSD John, Sherlock Plays the Violin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:15:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24799819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ughilovejohnlock/pseuds/Ughilovejohnlock
Summary: John thought his nightmares would subside. His limp did. John fights two battles in his mind and they start to merge. His love for Sherlock (far from platonic) is raging on one side of his brain, while memories of Afghanistan terrorizes the other.  What happens when he can't keep the wars apart? Sherlock promises to help him with his PTSD (to the best of his ability, he isn't the doctor of course) but can he help John with the other side of his war? Little does John know Sherlock faces a similar battle in his own mind. One that is destroying his mind palace.There is going to be fluff, angst, and most likey smut.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 28





	1. You've Got A Blanket!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is fighting an ongoing battle in his mind, again. The same dream has plagued his mind since returning home from the war. Sherlock's normal attempts at soothing him don't seem to work tonight. As John's dream gets out of control, what will happen to Sherlock as he attempts to help his John?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's chapter one! This fic is going to do duo POV, the first half of the chapter is going to be one boy and the other half is the other boy. (I'm usually going to do John then Sherlock, but I may switch it up a bit)

JPOV

It starts the same. Every single fucking time.

_“Doc!”_

_“Please, help!”_

_“God almighty!”_

_“Watson!”_

_“WATSON!”_

_All I can see is dirt and blood. Men of all ages screaming in agony as bullets fly past their head, if not into them. So much blood. The heat is unbearable. The enemy is everywhere._

_Screams._

_Gunfire._

_Heat._

_Sweat._

_Blood._

_Blood._

_So much blood._

_Too much blood._

_My vision is blurred. Dirt, sweat, and blood (God so much blood) cover my eyes as I hop from one wounded man to the next. I can’t focus, can’t give them words of encouragement._

_God so much blood. Too much blood. I can’t breathe. I’m losing focus._

_That’s when it happens._

_“Watson! Watch your 6!”_

_I don’t understand. I can’t process anything. Too focused on the screaming man below me._

_I turn towards the voice._

Then it happens.

_The bullet soars. It's like time itself has slowed as I watch the bullet fly with the grace of a dove. I am frozen._

_It flies completely through my left shoulder._

_I am no longer a doctor as I scream. I become one of my men. Screaming. Pleading._

_Where is Murray?_

_Oh God. He isn’t coming. (“The men first, Murray, always the men first.”)_

_So many men._

_This is it._

_This is where it all ends._

_In the dirt._

_Surrounded by the screams._

_Suffocated by the heat._

_Eyes burning from the sweat._

_Drowning in the blood._

_So much blood._

_Too much blood._

_I can’t see anything. I can only hear a faint whisper. It seems surreal._

_“John?”_

_No one calls me that. Not here._

_“John.” The voice is urgent._

_“John!”_

I wake with a start.

There is someone on top of me. _Have to help my men._ I shove as hard as I can.

_Where am I?_

“John?”

_Sherlock._

I whip around to where Sherlock is sitting on the floor, hand to the back of his head. I had never seen him so vulnerable before. _Why does he look so scared?_

“John? You were screaming, so I came in I-”

It all clicks. _Why does it always take so long to click?_

I mutter, “It was a dream. Thank you for coming-”

Another click. _I shoved Sherlock._

I become frantic as I take in the scene. Sherlock with his left hand behind him to hold himself up, legs in front of him, right leg bent. His right hand clasping his head. Sherlock is but a dark silhouette in the dark room. I lean over and turn on the bedside lamp.

Red coated Sherlock’s hand.

“Sherlock, your head…”

_Blood._

_“You’re lucky, Murray, could’ve gotten your head blown off. What the fuck were you doing without your helmet on?”_

I shake my head. _Focus. Sherlock needs help._

“- won’t be an issue in the morning but you have work.” Sherlock finishes. I wasn’t paying attention, but he looks too shaken, so I won’t ask him to repeat it.

“Into the bathroom. Turn the light on and plug the sink.” As soon as it left my mouth, I know they're too snappy. _Get yourself together, John. This is Baker Street, not Afghanistan._

I bury my head in my hands. Instead of going to the bathroom, Sherlock kneels on the floor in front of me. When I look at his face, he has that brilliant I’m-seeing-everything-while-you-are-seeing-nothing face. And, like every time I see this face, part of me wants to know what it is that he sees. Only this time, a larger part of me does not.

“John?” His voice came out so uncharastically soft it hurt.

“I need to look at that cut and make sure you aren’t concussed.” I say in a matter-of-factly tone. _Why can’t I think straight?_

He allows me to grab the first aid kit from under my bed, no fuss. He allows me to walk in front of him on the staircase in case he falls, no fuss. He allows me to sit him down on the toilet, no fuss. He lets me poke and prod at the cut, no fuss. He drinks a whole glass of water that I hand to him, no fuss. His eyes are dilating fine, no concussion. _Why is he being so quiet?_

“Sherlock, I’m sorry. I can’t- I don’t know how- Shit Sherlock. I-” Why can’t I explain? I explained them to Ella so many times in the past.

Before I can try again, Sherlock gets up and does the most unexpected thing.

He _hugs_ me.

I freeze. Of course, I freeze. _Of course._ I mentally kick myself as a voice inside me screams, _“How long have you wanted this? Hug him back!”_ Still frozen.

“You need not apologize, John. I’m alright. Just- I think you are supposed to take deep breaths. If it slipped your mind, I am not the doctor but- wait hold on, I’ve got this, stay here.” Sherlock disappears through the door to his room. I am disappointed by the sudden loss of contact. And even more, confused by why I am disappointed. Sherlock appears with a bright orange blanket.

“I’m not in shock, Sherlock.” I can’t help the smile that plays on my lips as he drops it over my shoulders and wraps it around the front. I also cannot help the beat my heart skips when his hands skim my chest.

“Sure you are! Look, you’ve got a blanket!” He says, a smile fluttering on his lips.

Two grown men, one who just got thrown into a dresser, and the other one whose PTSD nightmare caused the regrettable shove, burst out in giggles (that eventually turn into tearful laughter) in a bathroom not quite big enough for one person, at three in the morning.

The nights always start the same, but luckily, some times they end with an orange shock blanket. 

************************

SPOV

It starts the same. Every single night.

I am almost certain he thinks that I don't hear, or if I do, I chose to ignore it. 

_Like that could possibly happen._

He has adapted to and accepted my weird sleeping habits with a bit of protest and even fewer questions. Truth be told, I don't sleep much anyway, thinking is a far more useful use of my time. That being said, I have purposely rearranged my sleeping schedule the _smallest_ bit to insure I can catch any nightmares. That first night he was here, after he shot the cabbie, I was up late analyzing and categorizing the events of the case into my mind palace when I heard something fall from upstairs. I thought little of it, I attributed it to he was tired and ran into something. _Lack of a soft swear, lack of footsteps._ The walls in Baker Street are paper-thin, not literally of course, but I have heard Mrs. Hudson say it and I see what she means. I had crept up the stairs that night and stopped outside his door. No need because as soon as I got up there the thrashing began. His bed was shaking and I was positive I could have heard it from the kitchen. I don't panic. I have no use for emotions, so therefore I don't panic. But, when I am, let's say, overwhelmed by information that I cannot catalog at once, I feel fidgety and sweaty. Not panic. I don't panic. During these times (not panicking) I tend to play my violin. Or use cocaine, but that has been frowned upon so I shall refrain. I picked up my violin that night with the intent of drowning out the sounds coming from upstairs. As the first few notes floated from my bow in a beautiful, sorrowful way, I could still hear the bed. I played longer, and when the clock struck 3 in the morning, I realized the bed had stopped shaking and all noises from upstairs were quite. There was a fleeting moment where I didn't understand. Surely a nightmare of that intensity wouldn't have just passed on its own, he should've woken up. If he had woken up I would have heard a loud gasp at least, more likely a yell. Even if he woke up silently, I would think he'd need to loo or water. Another moment passed as I (not panicked) thought I might have been the reason he didn't venture downstairs. I had put my violin away, showered, and dressed for bed before I realized what had happened. 

_My violin had soothed him._

I had felt something in my chest that didn't quite match heartburn and something in my stomach that resembled nausea. I had a brief moment of (not panic) wonder. I vowed to myself that I would play for him every night, for as long as it took. For some unknown reason, I liked the not-quite heartburn and the almost nausea and playing for him brought me those. 

So that is how the night starts. 

I don't even wait to hear the bed anymore. He goes upstairs, I play. He gets a nightmare, I move to the bottom of the stairwell and play a happier tune. He complains about it in the morning, but it is not sincere. 

Tonight is different. 

I play my favorite homemade piece, the one I made the first night he was home, because that usually helps him. I hear the bed hit the wall with a loud _bang._

_Tonights a bad night. Noted._

I move closer to the end of the stairwell, hoping to calm the nightmare down before it gets worse. I switch to his favorite piece, the first one I had made with him in the room. It is a sweet melody with light notes. Little does he know I was expressing my (not feeling) thoughts for him. I play around with my (maybe feelings) thoughts for him as I play his tune from muscle memory. As I am coming to admit that I (maybe) have (something similar to) feelings for him, he screams. I drop my bow at once. He has never screamed. Yes, he has woken up from the dream gasping before, but not screaming. I place my violin down on the sofa as I silently climb the stairs. I approach his door and knock.

"John?" I ask just in case he's awake. 

There was no answer so I open the door and slide in and-

I don't panic, but if I did, I would've right here. 

John was thrashing around on the bed pleading with someone, begging for help. Tears were rolling down his cheeks, face contorted in pure agony. The blanket was on the floor, long discarded, his vest rolled up showing part of his stomach and, if not for the circumstance, I would have revisited my earlier thought process about feelings. The trashing continues and so do the pleas. I don't know what to do.

"John?" I ask again. He seems to respond as his body tenses. I take that as a good sign.

"John." I say a little more loudly. I approach his bed and sit on the edge. He still hasn't woken so I place my hands on his shoulders and give him a small shake. 

"John!" I all but yell. 

Bad Idea. 

John lurches up and I catch an animalistic gleam in his eye as he shoves me back. I try to keep my footing but I lose my balance and trip. I fall backward and my head collides with the corner of something. 

_Dresser._

I position myself so I can see John as I place my hand to my head. _Bleeding._

"John?" I ask, trying to keep the small tremor of shock out of my voice, not succeeding. 

I watch as John snaps his head up at me. His eyes scream pain with a glint of confusing so I begin to explain. 

"John? You were screaming, so I came in I-"

The look of realization and the dimming of the savage look in his eyes cuts me off. 

John shakes his head a bit as his gaze softens. 

"It was a dream. Thank you for coming-"

John's voice cuts off and his head snaps. I can read in his eyes a mix of horror and self-loathing as he looks at me. I let him take in the scene as I start to get fidgety. After a quick look over he throws on the light and his eyes connect straight with my right hand on my head.

"Sherlock, your head.." He trails off as his gaze hardens again. He gently shakes his head. 

"It's just a little cut, I can take care of it. I can tell you I'm not concussed. You should really get back to sleep, though. My head will hurt for a few days. The cut won't be an issue in the morning but you have to work." I can tell he isn't listening, still trapped in his mind but I can't help but ramble. I want to help him but I can't observe him from here. 

"Into the bathroom. Turn the light on and plug the sink." The commandment in his voice makes both of us flinch as he drops his head into his hands. I stand up and walk over to his bedside, careful not to startle him again and I kneel down in front of him. He lifts his head out of his hands and the rawness of his emotions shock me as I take them all in. 

"John?" I whisper, too afraid of startling him back into his mind. 

"I need to look at that cut and make sure you aren't concussed." John states as if he's trying to get me to eat on a case. 

I want to help him. I know what it is like when your mind takes over. When you aren't in control. I search through every memory I have while he grabs the first aid kit. I start with memories with Mrs. Hudson, she tries to comfort me all the time. I fly through those as he walks backwards down the staircase _just in case you fall._ He sits me down on the toilet when I come up with one thing. I will never admit it out loud, and I am only admitting it to myself because I need to help my John, but Mrs. Hudson used to calm me down by hugging me. As I am thinking of memories with John, he makes me drink a cup of water. He checks my eys as I fly threw our memories to find something to help him. 

“Sherlock, I’m sorry. I can’t- I don’t know how- Shit Sherlock. I-” John stutters. I stand up and wrap my arms around him as I pull him to my chest. He tenses up, but I know that it feels nice anyways, I never use to return Mrs. Hudson's hugs. 

“You need not apologize, John. I’m alright. Just- I think you are supposed to take deep breaths. If it slipped your mind, I am not the doctor but- wait hold on, I’ve got this, stay here.” As I am trying to walk him threw what I have heard him tell me and others, something dawns on me. I run into my bedroom and slide next to my bed. I reach under. 

_I know I put it down here- aha there it is!_

I pull out a bright orange blanket and I run back to John.

As I wrap the blanket around John's shoulders, my stomach gets that near nausea feeling harder than it ever has before. 

"I'm not in shock, Sherlock." He laughs gently. 

"Sure you are! Look, you've got a blanket!" I can't help but join in the laughter.

It starts as giggles and evolves into rib-cracking, tear-inducing laughter. Have the two of us ever cared about what time it is before? No, we have not. I think Mrs. Hudson won't mind this noise though. 

It starts the same, it always will. If it starts out well, leave it that way. Change can come in the end. 


	2. A Fallen Palace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What will the next day hold? How will they react? John and Sherlock fight two different battles, both concerning the other but, as typical British men do, they don't consult each other.

John’s POV

It starts the same. I wake up to Sherlock playing violin, doing an experiment, shooting our wall, or yanking me out of bed because we have a case.

None of the above apply to today.  _ Why is it so quiet?  _

I notice that I am much more tired than I usually am, especially since I went to bed so early last night. 

_ Must have had a nightmare, I don’t always remember having them. _

I look over at my alarm clock to see how much longer I can stay in bed before I need to get ready for work.  _ Oh lovely, -5 minutes, wonderful.  _ I haul myself out of bed and grab my dressing gown on the way out. As I am walking down the stairs, I go back to the question,  _ where in Hell is Sherlock?  _ He’s always up at this time, unless he’s sleeping off a case, which we haven’t had in a while. (You can tell by the severed toes next to the milk in the fridge).  _ Maybe he’s had a case that was simple and he didn’t need me.  _ I can’t say I'm pleased with the clench my stomach gives at that thought. I start going through the process of making tea. I can hear Mrs. Hudson as she opens her door and makes her way up the stairs. 

“Oh good morning, John. I thought you two were on a case the flat was so quiet,” she says, looking very surprised, “I came up here to tidy up a bit.”

“Yes, actually, I was wondering, do you know where Sherlock is? I haven’t heard from him this morning.” 

“No, dear, sorry. Have you checked his room? Is he having a bit of a lie-in?” She starts walking into the living room and tidying up. “Oh! Sherlock left his violin out.” She tsks but leaves it where it was.

“He  _ what? _ ” I spin around and rush into the living room. 

There it is, lying discarded on the sofa as if it had been tossed there in a hurry. Sherlock never,  _ ever, _ left his violin out and unattended. It was one of the very few things he always took care of. 

_ Why the  _ hell  _ would Sherlock leave it out? And so unorderly?  _

I start to walk towards his room, although I have a large amount of doubt that he is in there. As I pass the loo, I glance in. I immediately do a 180 and look into the sink where there is a bloody flannel sitting in the sink, my first aid kit, and the shock blanket on the floor. I get a bit irritated as I wonder what Sherlock could possibly have gotten into this early in the morning when I realize that the first aid kit is  _ mine.  _ Not the one we keep under the sink, the one I keep in my nightstand drawer. I stand there for a bit, trying to force myself to remember why that first aid kit was necessary, why there was so much blood on that flannel, why there were stitches out, and why the hell is the shock blanket there. 

When it hits me, I almost pass out. I stumble backward a bit and drop the mug with my tea in it. I faintly hear Mrs. Hudson’s small gasp and exclamation. I stumble towards Sherlock’s room where I push the door open slightly. I choke back a sob with the sight that greets me. A sight that will never leave me. One that will join the file of haunted pictures that will plague my nights in a horrifyingly vivid way.

The light had started to trickle in through the small crack in the curtains and it shines directly onto his bed. It looks as if he tried to cover his face from the sun at some point but the pillow has moved slightly since he’s drifted back to sleep.  _ Sleep, John. Watch his chest. Rise, 2, 3, 4. Fall, 2, 3, 4.  _ The right side of his head is covered in a purple bruise that disappears into his hairline. The hair on the right side of his head looks matted down and clumped together. As my eyes drift further down his body, they rest on his right hand lying on the little bit of skin between his shirt and his trousers. His hand still has blood on it, we never cleaned it. After we finally got ourselves to stop laughing, I made him ice the already forming egg on his head and gave him some painkillers with a promise to get stronger ones from the chemist today. I went straight upstairs and to my room after I sent him off to bed. I fell asleep alarmingly fast. I continue to stare at him, willing myself to breathe and to think clearly. Mrs. Hudson comes up behind me and grabs me by my shoulder. I startle out of my haze. 

“Oh dear, is everything alright? You worried me!” 

“Everything is alright, Mrs. Hudson, we just had an accident last night that somehow slipped my mind.” 

Mrs. Hudson says goodbye as she heads back downstairs. Everything is  _ not _ alright. I have accepted the fact that Afghanistan is going to stay with me, oh well. But this,  _ this.  _ How could I have done something as awful as this? God, what is  _ wrong  _ with me? My phone’s alarm blares, reminding me that I need to leave the house within the next 10 minutes if I want to catch the tube. 

I go through a condensed version of my morning routine in a daze. I can’t think straight, everything seems so surreal. All I can seem to focus on is the look on Sherlock’s face when I pushed him. The blood. The way he winced when I pressed the flannel to his head. The way the bruise formed so quickly. The way my stomach felt when he touched me.  _ Why did it do that? I thought we agreed to give up on that.  _ I can’t seem to focus on anything else except the way he cared. His head must have been  _ pounding.  _ There is no way he wasn’t in pain.  _ Why did he go through the effort to make me smile? Why didn’t he shove me away in disgust? Maybe he is concussed, maybe I should check again tonight.  _ My phone buzzing breaks my train of thought. I jump a little and then look around me. I am on the tube, fully dressed, with my wallet, keys, and phone.  _ When did this happen?  _ I internally groaned.  _ I thought I was pass dissociating, maybe it's time to call Ella again.  _ I glance down to check the notification on my phone. 5 texts from Greg.

_ Greg Lestrade 8.45 [Text Message] _

_ Where’s Sherlock? I’ve been trying to get a hold of him for the past 10 minutes and nothing, I’ve got a double homicide and no suspects.  _

_ Greg Lestrade 8.47 [Text Message] _

_ Oh wait, got him.  _ __

_ Greg Lestrade 8.50 [Text Message] _

_ What the hell is wrong with him, nearly bit my head off _

_ Greg Lestrade 8.51 [Text Message] _

_ Is he alright? Did you two have a domestic ; )  _

_ Greg Lestrade 8.59 [Text Message] _

_ John?  _

I respond as quickly as I can. 

_ Hey, sorry, I’m on the tube - you know how the connection is  _

_ Sherlock is going to have a pretty nasty headache today, I’ll text you when I get home from work if he’s feeling better _

_ Greg Lestrade 9.04 [Text Message] _

_ Ah, finally knock him out, did ya? Ha, bloke probably deserved it. Let me guess- severed fingers in the veggie drawer? _

I respond. 

_ Ha, not this time, Have to go, mate _

_ Greg Lestrade 9.05 [Text Message] _

_ Alright, text you tonight  _

I can’t breathe properly. _ “Finally knocked him out.” I almost did. I could’ve hurt him. I  _ did  _ hurt him. Oh God. Wait, he’s awake. I should text him. What do you  _ say?  _ ‘Sorry I threw you into a dresser last night, how’s your head?’ ‘Don’t worry about the mess in the bathroom, I’ll clean it when I get home.’  _ What do I  _ do?  _

Someone puts their hand on my shoulder and I jump and spin around to see who it is.  _ Sarah. I’m already at the hospital? How did I get here? Oh God.  _ She looks at me with worry written all across her face. 

“John? You alright? You look a little pale..” 

“I’m fine.” I snap.  _ Where did that come from?  _ “Sorry I-” I try to explain but she’s already dragging me into her office. 

“What happened? I haven’t seen you like this since you first started working here.” Sarah was one of the only people who noticed how much living with Sherlock has changed me. She still remembers me when I started working here as a broken soldier who never truly left the war. 

I don’t know what causes me to do it, but once I start to explain, I can’t stop. I tell Sarah everything. I tell her about how terrible of a person I am, let alone a  _ doctor.  _ I tell her how I don’t remember getting from Point A to Point B. Before I really know what’s happening she’s calling another doctor, asking if she could fill in. Sarah hangs up the phone and looks at me. I don’t need my reflection to tell that I look like shit, her expression says it all. 

“Call Ella.” She says.

“I will when I get home.” I won’t. I hate seeing Ella, I always leave her office feeling worse than when I started.  _ ‘It’s all part of the healing process, John. It has to get worse before it can get better.”  _

“No,” Sarah says, shocking me back into reality, “you’re not leaving my office until you call her.”

I should’ve known she wouldn’t believe me. I pulled out my phone reluctantly and dialed Ella’s number.

“John! How are you? It’s been quite a while since I’ve seen you.” Ella’s overly happy voice greets me.

“I’m fine-” Sarah shoots me a glare, “Well, okay actually, I’m not okay.” I sigh, defeated. 

“I just had an appointment open up for today at 10, can you make that?” She asks, her voice dripping with faux concern. I glance at my watch: 0930.

“Yeah, I can.” I really don’t want to see her. I feel so emotionally drained and I haven’t even been awake for 2 hours.

“I’ll see you then, John. Bye now.” 

“Bye.” The line disconnects. Sarah comes over to where I’m sitting and hands me a cup of coffee. 

“Don’t come in tomorrow. Call if you need anything, John. We’re here for you.” Sarah offers me a smile that I know I can’t return so I don’t even try. 

I really don’t want to see Ella. I don’t want to spill everything and then listen to her tell me it's all Sherlock’s fault. She thinks that he is the worst thing that has ever happened to me.  _ ‘He won’t let you leave the war, John.’  _ But he did. Not only did he  _ make  _ me leave the war, he made me  _ want  _ to leave the war. Without Sherlock, I would be another statistic, part of the 17% of veterans who blow their own brains out upon returning from war, but never really coming home. Sherlock saved my life with that stupid question:  _ ‘Afghanistan or Iraq?’  _ I can’t say that’s when I fell in love with him because that would’ve been stupid. But, somewhere in the first few months of us living together, no denying it. A few months after that is when my brain and my heart finally decided that it was time to put the feelings to rest so that I didn’t get hurt. 

I walk into the waiting room just as Ella walks out of her office.

“Now John,” she says with a fake smile on her lips, “start from the top.”

I take a deep breath, shut my rational brain off, and start talking. 

************

Sherlock’s POV

It starts the same. It hasn’t happened in a while, but you can’t forget things like this. The last time it happened was exactly 23 days before I met John. 

It starts with foreign languages. French, specifically. Followed by German, Russian, then Latin. The doors to their individual rooms open up and they swarm around and mingle with each other and then I can’t tell Pashto apart from English. When I try to go into that wing of my Mind Palace to fix it, they escape. Now I have German breaking the door down to the Math Wing. Geometry breaks out first. Followed by Algebra, then Calculus. Next thing I know, I can’t add. Each subject likes to find another wing to break into. I get overwhelmed and I admit defeat once Gay Men’s Underwear  _ (Fashion Trends Wing; located next to Clothing Materials) _ starts to fly around and break the pillars. At this point I would normally find cocaine. 

_ John would not be happy, you can’t use cocaine.  _

Alright then, no cocaine. 

That was apparently the worst decision to tell myself. Finger Prints just lit my small amount of knowledge of the Solar System on fire.  _ I was learning that for John!  _ Pillars are falling, the ceiling is crumbling down on me and there is nowhere to go. Nowhere for me to hide from the damage. I can’t escape. Cocaine would provide me with a bubble so I could watch my Mind Palace destroy itself from safety. There is no safety this time. I dodge a piece of the ceiling as it shatters into a thousand pieces, littering the floor. It hurts so bad. I look down at myself to see gashes and blood covering my body, my suit in shreds. I try to call out for someone to help, anyone. Memories of my childhood come trampolining through causing their own destruction. I have never let it get this far, it’s too painful. My memories consume me and make me watch what used to be on repeat, tantalizing me. 

_ I was 12 when Mycroft went off to college. The goodbye was horrid.  _

_ “Do you have to go, Myc? Do you really?” I begged him to stay.  _

_ “Yes, Sherlock, and you will too in six years.” Mycroft brought his hand up to ruffle my hair. It was as if I could feel him doing it now.  _

_ “No way, I’m not going to college. What could I possibly learn there that I don’t already know?” I huffed.  _

_ Mycroft chuckled and shook his head. His red hair looked flaming orange in the sun. He looked care free still, young and hopeful for what lied ahead of him. There were no wrinkles in between his brows, just on the edges of his eyes and a bit around his lips from the happiness of his youth. I hadn’t had my growth spurt yet, so I still had to tilt my head up to see him.  _

_ “Will you write to me? Promise you will.” I had an aching feeling in my chest that had a name, but I deleted it long ago. _

_ “Of course, brother mine, every day.”  _

_ But he never did. I had gotten one letter from him, and by the time Christmas came around, I was alone. I never knew it then, but I really shouldn’t have cared.  _

_ “Sherlock! Mycroft is home!” I remember hearing Mummy yell up to me. It really didn’t matter. I was looking at the letter Mycroft had sent me a few days ago. The post had been delayed due to the holidays. I couldn’t stop reading it.  _

_ “Dear Sherlock, _

_ I’m having a wonderful time in college, for the most part. I apologize profusely for not responding to your letter sooner. I have learned many things here. There is but one I need to share with you. Everyone dies. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock. I cannot afford weaknesses anymore. I love you, but we can’t be what we used to be.  _

_ Please keep my advice in mind. I will see you at the holidays.  _

_ From your brother, _

_ Mycroft.” _

_ It was that I lied next to my bed as I uncapped the bottle of pills. I could hear Mummy greeting Mycroft and then calling my name. They were talking in hushed voices. On me, of course. Mummy isn’t as brilliant as Mycroft or me, but she notices the little things. She noticed I started wearing long sleeves much earlier in the year than normal. She noticed how I started removing myself from the family. _

_ I heard another “Sherlock, come here!” This time from Daddy. I poured the pills into my hand.  _

_ “Sherlock?” Mycroft’s voice floated up the stairs. _

_ The pills were in my mouth. Swallowed. I started to feel drowsy as the pill bottle fell to the floor with a soft ‘clink’.  _

_ “Sherlock, are you up here?” Mycroft’s footsteps were climbing the stairs. I felt peaceful as my brain shut itself off, finally.  _

_ “Sherlock?” A knock at my door. It doesn’t matter, really. I feel nice. _

_ The doorknob turns and the last thing I see and hear is “Sherlock! What have you done?!” Mycroft’s pained expression contradicted what he wrote in the letter in my hand. I fell into the most peaceful state of mind as I heard Mycroft screaming for help. I felt him shaking me a bit.  _

Other memories of my childhood and young adulthood attack me, there is nowhere for me to hide. I need cocaine. 

_ John would not be happy, he’d be furious with you.  _

_ John. John.  _

I dodge a memory that has something to do with Mycroft and bees and I sprint. I run as fast as my legs can take me. I jump over a pile of constellations that looks like Physics had its way with. I run through the shattered glass. I push the burning wood out of the way. I ignore the screams of everything pushing down on me and I just  _ run. _

I get to the largest wing of my Mind Palace. I stand right outside it and fumble for the key that hangs around my neck. I can feel arrows being shot into my back, the belt that is slapping my shoulder blades as I try to hold back the screams.  _ Almost there.  _ I finally get the key in and unlock the door. I quickly go inside and slam the door behind me. I refuse to let the chaos reach John.  _ Why is it still so anarchic?  _ I turn around and what I see hurts me more than any weapon could. 

_ Something opened the Insecurities door.  _

The “DO NOT CROSS” tape is strewn across the floor. Insecurities are flying around and destroying the haven I had perfected. Memories with John are being twisted and shown for what I fear they really are. It is so loud. I try turning back, I can’t deal with this. I can deal with nostalgic memories of Mycroft. But I can’t do this, can’t deal with this  _ now.  _ I turn back but there is no door. I feel something on my shoulder and I turn around and there’s John. Not  _ my  _ John, though. This is what is labeled as Dark John. John from Insecurities. Dark John leans in and starts whispering in my ear. Sweet John normally does the same thing but the words are contrasted. Every word that Dark John utters feels like a knife pushing on my skin, but never breaking it. 

_ You think you’re worth me? _

_ You’re rude and arrogant. I only put up with you because I’m desperate. _

_ I can’t stand you, and your stupid tricks.  _

_ You’re far too skinny and lanky.  _

_ Wait ‘til Sweet John hears about those scars. What will he do then, hm? You think he’ll still tolerate you when he finds out what you really are? Ha! Pathetic. _

_ You love him. You don’t know what love is, but I do. You love him, oh so much.  _

_ News flash, Sherlock. _

_ He doesn’t love you back.  _

I try shoving Dark John away, I can’t breathe properly. I hear a ringing. I look around to see a memory.  _ Do I have memories with John that includes ringing? Do I?  _ The ringing persists.  _ Where is it coming from?  _ Dark John seems to be annoyed that my attention was diverted from him. He grabs me and shoves me. A ‘memory’ from Insecurities attacks me. The ringing gets louder. I am in so much pain. The ‘memory’ slams my body back down onto the floor and grabs me by the hair. It starts reperdently smashing my head over, and over, and over, and over, and over….

My vision starts to shift. The ruins of my Mind Palace become transparent and I can see bits and pieces of somewhere else.  _ Where am I?  _ I have no Mind Palace to return to, only John’s wing.  _ Memories in this room. With John.  _ I glance around the memories flying through the air and I see a Dark Memory that has this room. I grab it.  _ I need to know where I am.  _ I watch the first half of the Dark Memory of Dark John telling me that I look much more pathetic without my clothes on and that he’s changed his mind; he no longer wants to sleep with me.  _ Sex, where does that usually happen. Think! Bedroom! Aha!  _ I look around my bedroom. I can still hear the ringing. Is it real, or Mind Palace? Trying to separate the two causes too much pain. I look to see if I could visually identify what is making the noise in my room. I see a thing and it's shaking.  _ What is that called?  _ I look back through my memories with John and spot another Dark Memory. This one has red around the edges meaning its Violent John. We are in an argument. The vibrating thing gets chucked at me. It misses, but only barley.  _ What is it called? What does it do?  _

_ ‘Go ahead,’ Violent John cocks his head towards the object, ‘answer the fucking call.’ _

_ Calling. I can call on it. What is it called?  _

_ ‘Are you fucking stupid, pick up the damn phone, you whore!’ _

_ Phone! Calls people. Phone in real life is ringing, what does that mean? Phone in memory is displaying a name. Phone in real life: Aha! Displaying name! What button do I hit?  _

_ ‘Guess you are stupid,’ Violent John stomps passed me and picks up the phone, ‘I’ll answer it.’  _

_ Green button!  _ I hit the green button and place the phone up to my ear, mimicking Violent John. 

“It's about time! Jesus Sherlock, I thought you may have died!”  _ Whose voice is this? How do I respond? Violent John snaps into the phone. ‘What do you want?’ _

“What do you want?” I copy into the real phone. 

“I gotta case, double homicide, no suspect, will you come?”  _ Now what?  _

“Fuck off, Lestrade.” I copy Violent John’s every action, from how he rips the phone away from his ear to how he smashes the red button. 

I stare at Violent John. John, whatever form he’s in, is gorgeous. Everytime I see him, I want to let him take control. I can’t do it anymore. 

‘Please John,’ I whisper out, hoping he’ll hear me, ‘I can’t do it by myself.’

A John appears in front of me and smiles, it’s not quite right but I can’t place what’s wrong with it. He extends a hand.

‘Then let me take care of it, babe.’ I grab his hand in surrender before I realize what he said.

_ Only Dark John calls me ‘babe’.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SO SORRY IT TOOK ME SO LONG OH GOD IT'S BEEN WHAT 6 MONTHS I SWEAR I'LL UPDATE ON A MORE REGULAR BASES NOW. CHAPTER 3 IS ALREADY WRITTEN JUST FINISHING EDITING I'M SO SORRY <3 LOVE YOU HUMANS BYE


End file.
